I am writing this, after helping a friend (and continually thinking about this), a dear friend, even though doing so is killing my inside. Hurts me, pains me, makes everything harder. But I do it, continue to do it, and do it willingly. Despite the pain it brings.

The pain, here it comes, here I bring it.
Stepping on fire, that you know is there,
Pressing a knife to your head, as the pain drips down your side.

Yet I do this willingly.

The aspect of unending care, to help those, even as it pierces your soul,
Makes every day harder, more painful.

Yet I do this willingly.

It opens you up, yet you cannot find what’s wrong,
Cannot see what compels you to walk into this pain willingly.
This is a side no one sees
The problems of being ‘nice’; a façade everyone falls for.

Like walking around, with a knife pressed to your temple,
One that no one else can see.
That you show no one,
But it’s always there

Yet I do this willingly.

A simple Facebook message,
A song playing on the radio
Sight of a person
The mention of a name
The help you give to someone dear

Yet the pain.
It continues.
It hurts.
No one else can see.
You can see.
You can feel.